


Fair Enough

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: And no Daryl's not high, Awkward Daryl, Claiming, Daryl Has Issues, Daryl Misses Beth, Daryl dreams of screwing Rick's brains out, Dirty Daryl, Dream Sex, Emotionally Repressed, Fucking, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Kinky, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Not A Sloppy Joe, Not really - Daryl's on top for sure, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Sassy Rick, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smoking, Snoopy Joe, Teased Daryl, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Well that wasn't a very discreet tag, bottom!daryl, keeping secrets, top!rick, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is where the heart is, but it also depends on what makes a place feel safe, and in Daryl Dixon's case it's Rick Grimes. Man can't sleep a wink without thinking of his lover's face, his smile and dry laugh. Daryl's a wreck with his feet up, and all his hoping and wishing puts him into a nightmare for the hot and bothered. His moans of sweet nothing soon catching the attention of Joe – who wastes no time in asking where's the fire...</p><p>But Daryl's not ready to open up. Joe and his group of Claimers seem to have a code, but that's pretty much it. Privacy's forgotten with the world around and Daryl struggles to keep his relationship off the streets, though more importantly – to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Enough

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this one shot started with one word... Can you guess which one it was? Cheers.

_Home sweet home._

Daryl'd said it once before, back when he was with Beth, but like then he didn't truly mean it, not really. It was more like a spur of the moment saying, roused along the lines of a reminiscent thought or sarcasm. Daryl _was_ in a shack that reminded him of his old man, after all. Some place he downright hated at the time, but still found a sense of pride holding up in…

Though those memories were trashed alongside the house, burned to the ground just like the prison, leaving Daryl once again feeling empty. It was a feeling that had him thinking back to how good a leader Rick was. How he handled all the responsibility thrown his way like it was his duty as a cop or just a man.

All in all, it's Rick who made the prison feel like _home_ , got the place going with everything they needed to get by – protection, food, helping hands. In the past, everyone pitched in. They had a group, they _were_ a group, a group where everyone pulled his or her own weight and to Daryl, that's what he considered family. It's what he considered a _system,_ a method for keeping all the wild cards or flocks of shepardless sheep in-line…

Something similar, yet completely different than what _The Claimers_ Daryl'd bumped into had going.

They were a feral bunch, like a hungry pack of wolves that had no sense of justice or morality, running on what seemed like opportunity and easy pickings, all the while making Daryl out to be a cat among dogs. But he didn't mind it. Frankly, it was the code that made him stay – mostly 'cause it was simple.

Like that vest? _Claimed._ Want that spot for the night? _Claimed._

It was just a word, but to Daryl, after all he'd lost, it was the closest thing to what he left back at the prison. With the ripped up yard, with the torn down fences… with _Rick_. And Daryl knew it was selfish of him to want to hear that man's voice again – him among a list of others that should've been the first to pop into his head. But turns out, none of them mattered like he did.

Rick's touches were like gold mines to Daryl. The faint brushes of their fingertips during those times he was passed the shovel when out working in the fields digging graves. They were soft, maybe even unintentional, but it's what Daryl lived off of.

It's what he missed…

 _Misses_.

Even the tiffs Daryl remembers having with Rick, the tones they'd use with one another over stupid stuff, comes up sounding like music to his ears.

Not remotely close to what he has to listen to tonight – a group of grown men laying claim like a murder of crows fighting over yesterday's spoils. And honestly, Daryl doesn't even try to take part in defending something that ain't his.

He's only staying with the group 'til he's back on his feet – 'til he _finds the right place_. However long that'll be, he don't care. He's living in the moment, focusing on the present and not worrying about the future… or past.

Like being framed for stealing another man's meal.

See, trouble finds Daryl whether he wants it to or not, like an ex-girlfriend who won't take no for an answer, and well, man can't stand it.

He wasn't looking for a fight, he was too broken. Though if this was the past he wouldn't have put it past him. After all, talking with his fists was the only way he'd ever learned to solve his problems…

But right now, man's too tired to donkey-lick other men's wounds. He's looking to sleep and tries to do just that, throwing himself into the loneliest corner of the car garage to mind his own. Except that doesn't mean it comes easy, even with one hand carelessly draped over his eyes, the other hovering low on his chest.

Daryl's thoughts are as lopsided as his hair. Thinking back to all the things he could've done, how it all could've turned out differently if he just _did_ _something_ instead of run. Maybe if he just _stayed_ guilt wouldn't be burning his belly like it was full of ants or leaving him feeling like nothing short of a dead man.

And sometimes Daryl'd find himself cursing it was the latter. That he died back at Hershel's farm, back during the fall off Nervous Nelly. 'Cause then he wouldn't be here putting up with the same, old shit day in and day out.

It's killing him, and doesn't help neither when he thinks back to Beth, how she said he'd be _the last one standing –_ which, at the time, Daryl knew was meant as a compliment, but now, wishes it hadn't been said all the same.

Living in today's world was more like a liability than a gift. A pain-in-the-ass responsibility of being a survivor, of being left with nothing but memories of those who'd died or those who were just gone – like the youngest Greene.

And it's because of this Daryl finds himself curling under the gun.

After all, thinking like a good person isn't something he does as second nature. He's always played second fiddle, having Rick's back and decisions. But with him now gone, so is Daryl's moral compass, and it pains him not knowing if any of the others from the prison got out alive like he did.

The short time with Beth had Daryl fueling her fantasies about survivors. But once he saw her come crashing down, turning to the bottle for a quick lit to take her mind off things, it all changed. And looking back Daryl wants to kick his own teeth in for reinforcing such naïvety.

 _It can't be the same._ Not anymore.

He's lost too damn much to lift even the slightest finger towards a good cause, and all that's left for Daryl to nurture is his remorse and survival skills. Though it's uplifting to know one of them doesn't need that much honing. Man's been fending for himself since day one of the turn, starting back as Jess' cabin, and without much practice his wild streak's already in full-bloom, coursing through his veins like a flash flood in the desert.

And it's enough.

 _I'm better on my own,_ Daryl reminds, but really thinks it more in terms of sorrow than sincerity. In truth, it's all thanks to Joe's persuasive lip, how he'd said _going out alone ain't an option nowadays_ , and he may've been right. But still, it's survival of the fittest and Daryl can't stand foul play.

The group he's with… they're not family. They're not the people he sees when he closes his eyes at night. Like this night. Glenn, Maggie, Michonne… _Rick_. Everyone's faces flicker by like stills in a photo album and Daryl rubbing his lids ain't enough to smear the features of those etched into the backs of them. He still sees his friends, clear as day.

Even in his sleep.

And with Daryl's mind so full of past memories, it's no wonder he finds himself dreaming. Man hasn't done it in a while, would prefer not to either if he could help it, even if it is refreshing. Making him feel like some superhero from one of them comics he used to read and it takes him back to the time he and Merle stole some dude's stash during their trip to Jake's Bar and shacked up in some cabin afterwards to get blown out on every last joint.

Daryl remembers having some fucked up visions back then. A talking buck head on the lodge wall, flying squirrels without wings – it was like a full house of crazy, but a _fun crazy_. Both brothers, they were plumb loco like nobody's business, hooting and hollering like the world was their playground – which it wasn't. But it's how they rolled and nobody could come between them.

Except time, and whether Daryl wanted it to or not, it stretched him – his frown lines and his mind, starting with hallucinations.

The very same ones that plagued him back at the farm, down in the ravine. Literally seeing and talking to his dumbass brother, Merle, all the while being lectured about how much of a pansy he was… just biting the bullet and kissing another man's ass – that man being Rick, of course.

Though the way Daryl now sees it, after having lived it, they were just apparitions of his subconscious, his worry materialized. 'Cause truth be, deep down, it's how he felt that day. Guilty. Daryl felt guilty looking for some little girl instead of his own flesh and blood. And although it shamed him, he chose not to show it. He held it in, just as he held his friend Rick's hand – held it all the way 'til the end, 'til they were separated by a high fence and a lot of walkers…

It was a day that was etched into Daryl's psyche, wearing it thin like the scars scattered across his back. But the hurt was the same. It tore him up inside, twisted him real good. Frankly, 'cause he felt responsible for what happened. So responsible that the grief of not trying hard enough still holds him 'til this day.

It's under his skin, hooking him like the noose of his own snare and holds him there despite all comebacks. Daryl's trapped in a dark place of self-loathing and reproach, somewhere he doesn't wanna be, and can't see himself escaping anytime soon… Not without a little help, at least.

And maybe that's what Rick's for – this version of him anyways – the one standing by the tips of Daryl's ole soles looking exactly like he did the morning before he got pummeled by the Governor.

Same beige button-up. Dark, ashen jeans – skin a pleasant tan from all the time spent tending the garden and manning the fences. Plus the sweat, which makes the whole delusion feel like it could pass as a bona fide reunion. But Daryl knows it ain't and wonders all the same how his mind can be so cruel.

It's one thing to show him an apparition of his brother. But to show him something he can't have, _someone_ he can't have, that's not what Daryl considers legal. And his features pull into fifty different shades of sour when he's unable to stop himself from passing a brief glance towards his feet, just for curiosity's sake, before settling back against his makeshift pillow.

“Ya ain't real.” He grumbles dryly, lips feeling like they've been parched for weeks on end, but Daryl knows it's 'cause he's scared. Scared of what he might say, scared of what he might _do_. 'Cause this is Rick he's talking to.

 _Rick Fucking Grimes_.

Or at least an imaginary version of him anyways… But either way, he's as real to Daryl as Merle was back at the farm. And it's because of this he can't stare too long.

It feels like they have a connection, like they're one and the same or something, like he's reunited with the very man who's given him more than just friendship in the long run. And he did. Rick gave him a shoulder, as lean as it may've been. Put Daryl back on his feet after losing his brother, not once but twice. Carried him high even when there were pit-stops time and time again.

And sometimes Daryl wished they could stop running. That they could stop for a while and catch their breaths, nurture whatever they had going between them. In the end, man never got a chance to tell Rick how he felt about him. He still holds it inside all bottled up like some dirty and frowned upon secret.

But it ain't dirty. Not like the glances he keeps stealing from the phantom by his feet, and Daryl's not all that surprised when Rick makes for conversation.

_“That the only thang you gotta say to me?”_

The man's words are chewed out more like a cynical observation than a question and Daryl barely manages to contain a small puff from passing through his nose. Why he imagines his ghosts sassier than the norm is beyond him… It's annoying, but he feels tickled nonetheless.

“You come 'ere to bitch at me?” Daryl asks, a little calmer as he crosses his boots with a soft grunt. “Say it's my fault for the way things turned out?”

It's the only explanation he can think to call upon, better than assuming himself touched in the head or maybe even the victim of another concussion, which he knows ain't the case. No horses within a stone's throw for miles 'round, but that doesn't mean the man isn't a bit loopy – even in his dreams… and Rick gives him an unbalanced grin.

 _“Nah.”_ He tucks his head before swaying on his cowboy heels. _“I'm not gonna tell you what you already know— that it's not on you. But this…”_ There's a brief roll to one of Rick's shoulders as he motions around the garage without so much as a turn. _“This doesn't really suit you.”_

So Daryl's told himself, and he cranes his neck again. “What, you the angel on my shoulder now?”

Rick shrugs causally, like the question's just that simple. _“I'm whatever you want me to be.”_

But it's not simple – far from it – and definitely not something Daryl's ready to hear or ready to reply to for that matter without sounding wrecked, but he tries anyways. “I want ya to be _alive_.”

 _“And I am.”_ Rick reassures. _“I'm right here.”_ It comes as a whisper, an angelic voice through the mild night air, and Daryl perches onto his elbows just as Ricks leans down, snaking a hand to rest between the man's thighs with a nothing short of dreamy tilt of his head. _“Right now.”_ He finishes, and Daryl may've been besotted but he sure as hell wasn't swayed…

Not yet.

“And when I wake?” Daryl doesn't wanna think about the thought of that happening just yet, but feels he's gotta. “What then?” He chides, feeling so small in a world he calls his own, and Rick's quick to reach out and up Daryl's chest, legs soon resting comfortably on either side of the man's body like he's a saddle.

 _“Make the best of it.”_ Rick croons before dipping his eyes with a sorta swag towards both their belts, and after a moment's pause is looking back with an expression Daryl's missed. _“Make the best of_ me _.”_

It looks like love, evenly sounds like an invitation, 'specially with the way their lips are barely touching, which sends rockets of shivers up and down Daryl's spine like he's laying on a slab of ice. It's bleak enough as it is without a bed, but the strained distance makes him feel colder, emptier, but most of all… hornier. So to hell with good intentions and keeping his dream rated PG-13.

Daryl flips Rick onto his back and he's not really sure when it happened, but by the time he's nipping at the other man's collarbone, their clothes are off. Tops, at least, leaving any patches of fine chest hair and scars for the licking. And when the sucking starts, stuck on Rick's mouth like a starved leech, Daryl's all but thinking how his imagination can make everything feel so real.

He damn near wants it to be though, and maybe that's why it's so hard for him to stop. Daryl's on his belt before he knows it, the ghost-like Rick beneath his hips no longer looking so pale. His complexion's flushed, his crooked grin a feeding ground for adoration and desire, and Daryl wouldn't have had it any other way.

Whether he wants to admit it or not, he _needs_ this – this fuck. It's a mindfuck, but a sense of satisfaction all the same. 'Specially when all the signs are there…

There in Rick's groans, his light clawing down Daryl's back like it's a blackboard he's not too sure he wants to mark. But Daryl wants to be marked, wants to _do_ the marking, and sinks his teeth into the side of his lover's neck like it's a bone – which has Rick gasping, withering beneath him, and Daryl'll be damned if it isn't the most stimulating noise he's ever heard.

Sounded like life, and when Daryl establishes a rhythm for them both to follow with each rut of his hips, Rick's giving him every breath. They come slow, whisking the man's ear like a lullaby until they're mixed among strained words and loose passion. The same goes for Rick's legs, which Daryl brings up and over his shoulders for a deeper thrust, twisting and bending them at an angle he almost didn't think they were capable of taking.

But Rick's more flexible than he gives him credit for, and arms soon loop their way around Daryl's neck just for no reason but to hold him close. It's an ardent gesture, coupled with Rick's moonshine gaze, and Daryl buries his head in the man's chest, taking it all in. Starting with the way he smells, like nothing now but desire, except Daryl can imagine…

He can _imagine_ the down-to-earth scent of Rick Grimes. The feel of his hands, the calluses, and taste of dirt. Same went for the brilliant blue of his eyes, not a bright sapphire like when he'd first met him, more like a dull cobalt nowadays, but Daryl likes the shade either way.

It's haunting and reflects all he could ever want. Imaginary Rick or Rick-in-the-flesh, man's gorgeous, rain or shine – having this untamed sense about him, like something's there beneath the surface just waiting to explode, and not knowing what it is sets Daryl on fire.

“Rick…”

He'd smile if he could, show some teeth, but since he's never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, he keeps it in; only curving just enough of his mouth to prove to himself he's having a good time. And he is – Daryl Dixon _is_ , the time of his life.

His body's racing on high, sending tremors of confusion, ache, but most of all, _pleasure_ to every inch of his system. And sure, he's had sex before, way back before the turn. Except never like this, and Daryl's not shy to say he's learned a thing or two over the years about putting the devil into hell.

It's not just the wild humping that gets him turned on. There're the thoughts that come with the physical, sometimes before the actual penetration or whatever. Daryl can speak from experience, realizing at a naïve age while watching a porno with Merle that every so often the contemplation of grinding's more satisfying than the actual sit-down itself. And that's what Daryl's working off right now.

A _thought_ – 'cause that's all Rick is, really.

A manifestation of raw lust and regret, and Daryl crumbles after what feels like his third spill. His arms are jelly, his chest heaving like he's just run a marathon and he curses silently at the rate of his heart. It's pounding like a church bell – in his head, against his lungs. Man never thought dream sex could be so downright _satiating_ , which's a big word for Daryl to consider using, but he knows it means right.

And so does Rick.

_“Daryl…”_

The name's exhaled like a lyric to some love song and the man himself greets the lips of his angel. In one suck, two, softer than when he'd first tasted them – but the drive's still there. And he doesn't want this to end. He doesn't wanna wake up from this… this _perfection_ , which's what Rick is to him.

“You're perfect.” Daryl murmurs into the closest ear, receiving a lazy stroke to the back of his head and he rumbles subconsciously until another,

“Daryl.”

has him twitching like a restless mutt caught in some nightmare.

The tone's different, not raspy and tangy like Rick's normal drawl. It's a flat and dry, too close to the reality of brutality, and when Daryl tries to ignore it, stay in this safe-haven he's created for himself, in comes another roar like a bat outta hell.

“Yo, Daryl!”

Daryl churns with a jolt, like his soul was just thrown back into his body after being on the verge of death, and he can hear Joe chuckling in his direction. And when Daryl all but looks past his feet, he has a sinking feeling about what's so funny.

Man has a hard-on in his jeans like he can't believe and when Joe starts walking his way, boots dragging like the laid back son-of-a-bitch he is, Daryl tries as he might to hide it – using his crude pillow, a thin black bag, but cover nonetheless – while being every bit of modest he can muster.

Except Joe saw his erection, not letting the amusement fall any lower than the smoke perched between his lips when he takes a seat on the closest car's bumper next to a very squeamish bowman.

“Looked to me like you were havin' a lot of fun.” He teases just as Daryl finishes his sit with a scoot, eyes downcast with nothing short of embarrassment.

They stay low, tongue-tied like his mouth, and although it's still dark out – probably close to morning, judging by the height of the moon in the sky, hanging low through the cracks of the garage – Daryl knows Joe got the gist of the situation. Man's not stupid, but Daryl wishes him the same, soon looking 'round to see if anyone else's checking his way, maybe to show some ridicule…

But they're not, and Joes flicks at the tip of his cigarette.

“Ah, no.” He shakes his head. “None of the other boys saw ya, but I can't say my eyes didn't help themselves.” He admits with loose gesture of getting tail. “What were you ridin'? A bronco?”

There's a hint of wanting to know more despite the sarcastic tenor Joe uses, but Daryl pretends like he didn't read it. Though he does accept the packet of smokes when the man offers and for a while it stays quiet 'til silence ain't enough.

“Len told me what happened to ya.” Joe says outta the blue and it has Daryl curving to look at him from behind his damp hair. Names aren't exactly first base for the man, but he can imagine the asshole Joe's referring and it has Daryl's mouth drooping lower than he's used to.

“That retard don't know shit, let alone what he's talkin' 'bout.”

It's a snipe, a defense on Daryl's behalf, but Joe just takes it with a grain of salt.

“I don't know about that.” He starts, scrunching his neck with his shrug. “Said some bitch broke yer heart, and the way I see it, you're giving me nothin' to go on but his words.” There's a little more silence, like he needs time to think about what to say next, and soon Joe's raising a finger to narrate alongside his tongue. “Y'know, I've… I've seen heartache, had quite a bit of experience with it myself. And the dreams, well… they disappear after a while. Trust me.”

But Daryl Dixon doesn't just _trust_ strangers, nor does he want some smack pretending to be a father-figure telling him to get over his sulking spell, and tries to sound the least bit normal when he nips, “It ain't like that.” Better yet, he'd rather not _see it_ like that, and Joe's quick to hold up his hands as if he's surrendering.

But really, he's not.

“Ok, then maybe we can talk about it. Talkin' helps.” It's said more from memory than faithful advice, like it was read from some shrink's diary or the first line of some lame novel with no pictures, and shortly after out comes the small talk. “Lucky mate got a name?” He asks, and Daryl snorts.

It ain't none of Joe's goddamn business he thinks, and takes a long drag on his cig, letting a couple minutes slip with the cherry 'til it lights red and singes off.

Daryl considers lying, he almost does too, just to get rid of the nagging hush. A hush that speaks louder than words, but then there's what Joe said about twisting the truth, about it being a _slippery slope_ , so Daryl goes with the next best thing to a fib.

Nothing. He tells the man nothing, or close to it. 'Cause who can judge a guy when he's got zip on the table?

“Don' matter.” Daryl finally says with a twitch light enough to be written off as a shrug of his own. But Joe's persistent.

“Sure it does.” He pries.

But it don't, not anymore anyways. What's happened, happened, and Daryl flicks the last of his smoke like it reflects the terms of their conversation. It's his right to keep his thoughts to himself, and it's also his right to end a talk that's getting too personal. And although Daryl doesn't wanna get any closer to banding together with assholes and hooligans, he does think, for what it's worth…

“All ya gotta know s'that person's _claimed_.”


End file.
